


Sweetest Downfall

by konstellasjon



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konstellasjon/pseuds/konstellasjon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even if his friendliness soon turned to something sinister, you cannot forget his sweet smiles, and you cannot forget that you loved him first."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetest Downfall

In this light, this yellow light, he seems far away, hazy, as though in a dream.  
Maybe this is a dream. Because only in your mind can you be the one to have the power, the opportunity. And if this were real life, he would be the one to control you, and make your decisions.

But suddenly, he turns over, and you realise he is sleeping, and this is not a dream. This is very real and you are very aware that he is asleep, something you never really thought about him doing.

You'd always supposed that at night he paced his office, or prowled through the towns, or drowned his kindness with hard liquor. You never once supposed that at night he would retire to his room, change into his pyjamas, climb under the covers, and dream.

Is he dreaming? Of course, you can't be sure. He may just see black behind his eyelids. His mind might not create the beautiful images that sometimes visit you. They're not always beautiful, of course. Sometimes they make you want to cry and never again open your eyes to a cruel and demanding world.

It's possible that he might be dreaming. He might be seeing your green eyes. He might be seeing your hair, shining red in the light of the setting sun. He might be dreaming of a land far away from this house, a land where the sun shines in an unblemished blue sky, and he can sit on a vast stretch of grass, and watch the world go by. He might be dreaming of a world where he is liked for who he is, liked for being the person he worked so hard to become. A world where is isn't feared, where he isn't hated. He might be dreaming of a world where he is loved.

He could be dreaming all of this, or none of this.

The whole situation, to you, seems so absurd that you barely dare believe it's happening. And yet, here you are, and here he is. You can't deny, he looks so peaceful like that.

The pillows and duvets are voluminous, and he seems to be sinking into them, as they close in around him, you think you've never seen him look so small. You can see his clothes hung on the back of a chair, his long scarf reaching towards the bed, as if it were the last thing he took off. It probably was. His pyjamas are plain, a colour in between grey and blue, not really one or the other. His skin looks so pale, so unblemished, perfect. In the dull light it almost seems to glow, as if by its own luminescence.

You'd never really noticed this sort of sunset before. You've seen the impressive ones, orange and red streaking across the sky. You've seen the ones where clouds have dragged across the sky, stealing all colours, leaving only their grey. But this, this is pale and beautiful. This is silvery yellow and silvery orange and silvery pink, the colours delicate and understated, and quietly the sun retreats to the horizon again. This sort of sunset, this is the most beautiful. And you never thought you'd see it, not while he was here.

Squares of light shine down onto the wooden flooring through the windows, and within these squares, dust motes dance as they gradually descend into the darkness of the shade. Everything is so gentle, and you barely dare to make a sound, lest you suddenly break the spell he's somehow woven into the room. He doesn't make much sound as he sleeps, there is only the slow breathing in and breathing out as his lungs labour softly, and his heart beats regularly and comfortably within his chest. One of his hands is rested on his chest, the other reaching out into the space beside him, reaching out for the one he wants there, the one who he knows will never willingly be there.

Maybe he's dreaming that you are there.

You aren't really meant to be here, and you'll have hell to pay if she were to encounter you, but you don't move, or attempt to shut his door, or do anything else. You only stand there. In the corridor that you are still stood in, you are the only one. The others are somewhere else, seemingly so far away, yet you know they are only down the hall, perhaps, or down the stairs. But they aren't there, they aren't witnessing what you are witnessing, they aren't stood unsurely in the doorway like you are. They won't know what it's like to see this sunset and see the dust motes dance, when he sleeps so gently just feet away. They won't know, and you feel lost from them, because they'll never know any of this, because he won't let it happen again.

Whether or not you tell him, he'll find out that you were there. He'll find out, and he'll tell you so. After this night, he'll lock his door behind him so these moments of peacefulness and innocence are just for him, just for the one who will never be able to see them. And you'll be left to stand in the corridor, wondering as to what he is dreaming about.

This is a rare moment, you realise. You close the door behind you, the soft click ringing too loudly through the room. You wander to his bedside, and up close you can hear his breathing, watch his chest rise and fall. How easy it would be to end it all, right here. You could do so much to him, so much that has been done to you. So much that he deserves.

There's a part of your mind that you try to ignore, but it speaks up.

It tells you that you want to see him bruise, you want to blemish his soft skin. You want to mar it, you want to scar and tear, spoiling his perfection. You want to leave everlasting reminders of what you have done, because this is what he has done to you.

You look at his delicate eyelids, imagining the eyes behind them. You want to make those eyes swell and discolour, so they are unsightly and repulsive. You want to bust his lips and make his nose bleed. He's done it to you. And you want to do it to him. You want to make him feel revolted by his own reflection. You want to make him shudder at the sound of his own name. You want to make him hurt, make him cry, make him beg for anything that would be better than this. You want to do so much.

But, then again. You're known for your unfailing kindness. You could just pick up a pillow, hold it over him until he can't breath. He would be asleep, he wouldn't feel much. That would be kinder, surely. His last memory would be that beautiful yellow light filling his bedroom, his last thoughts would only be thoughts of comfort and relaxation. Yes, you conclude, that would be very kind.

And, to your credit, you almost do it. You almost stride over to the bed, grab a pillow and press it against his sleeping face. You almost do it, because he deserves it and he's done so much to hurt you, to hurt so many people. You almost do it, but you don't, because really, who do you think you are? You think you could kill someone, just like that? You aren't him, you never were and you never will be. You'll do anything to make sure you never will be.

So, instead, you stare at him, watch him sleep, and as the sun sets lower, and the sky bruises, eventually turning an inky blue, you are still watching him, and your anger has dissipated, because you can't deny it. You can't deny how calm he looks, his skin so pale and his hair so soft. It's almost silver in this light, and it falls messily around his face, a contrast from how he normally wears it. His eyelashes are dark, and they tremble against his cheekbones. His lips are pale and full, how they always were, but they are no longer chapped, they are soft and they part slightly as he breathes. His fingers are long and graceful, his nails clean and blunt. He's still reaching out to the space next to him, and you think he is comparable to a child, he is just that needing, he is just that lost. He is everything a child is, his innocence is the same, his cruelty is the same, his affection is just as thinly veiled.

You look at him for a long, long time, until the sky is dark and he is barely visible. Yet, you can always hear his breathing, and every now and then, the rustling of sheets as he shifts minutely. You can vaguely see the dull glow of his pale, perfect skin. You can see the shine of his soft, silvery hair. You can see his inky black eyelashes, and his long graceful fingers. And he is so innocent now, and you can see his hurt, his pain, his joy, his excitement, his hope, because in sleep he can't hide it.

He can't hide what his heart wants and you can see it on his face. All the time, he's reaching for the one person he loves, and it takes a long time but it registers in your mind that you are the one that he wants, despite what he does to you, how he treats you. He loves you, more than you can comprehend, and you gaze at him.

You think he looks beautiful as he sleeps, completely and utterly. He's beautiful, and you want him to stay like this forever so you can join him, and he can reach out and finally grasp you lightly, pulling you into his arms. You want this, but you remember his insanity, his drunken anger, the long metal pipe. And it makes you afraid to be in the same room as him, but as you look at him you remember how he once was, when you had first met him.

Back then he was mild mannered and polite, he had shaken your hand when you had been introduced to him, and his hand had been large and warm. You had lived in his house, and although you were cautious, he was good company and he lent you books from his library so you could pass the time, not quite grasping the fact that he had you imprisoned.

The man he had been then, he was kind and gentle, and even if his friendliness soon turned to something sinister, you cannot forget his sweet smiles, and you cannot forget that you loved him first.

You loved him first, before everything went wrong. You loved him then, and as you look at him, so far away in his dreams, you think that perhaps you still love him, despite everything, you still love him because he is so beautiful and pining for you, although it is subconsciously.

You know that it is perhaps unwise to love someone like him. You know that he can bring you and your country down with a nod of his head and a glare of his violet eyes.

Because of your nature, something you can't change or do anything about, you love him like you loved him at first, and although this boy (because you are sure that he is still just a boy) may be your downfall, you decide that he may be your sweetest downfall.


End file.
